Harley and Me (14 page)

• • •

Rebecca and I ramble through the shop, get coffee, rest. The dealership is amazing with lots of glass and weathered steel, a mash-up between rustic and ultramodern. There's even a restaurant that makes the best skinny little French fries I've ever tasted.

Back on the road, we continue half an hour into Salt Lake then east on Interstate 80, climbing Parley's Summit to seven thousand feet. When we cross the border into Wyoming, almost immediately we see huge, ambling bison. They're not running free, ruling the Great Plains as I'd hoped. They're corralled, zoo-like, in a pseudo nature preserve next to the interstate where we pull off to get gas.

The bison are slow-moving things—or so they appear. But don't be fooled. Bison can outrun humans, sprinting as fast as forty miles per hour. More people are injured in Yellowstone National Park by bison than by bears.

I expect them to stink but they don't, or maybe we're not close enough to know for sure. They're sizable: A bull can weigh more than eighteen hundred pounds and stand six feet tall at the shoulder. Bison once roamed the American prairie by the tens of millions and provided a way of life for the Plains Indians. But European settlers hunted them to the brink of extinction. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, only fifteen thousand of
these animals considered “wild” remain free ranging and not confined by fencing. Tribes of the American plains once relied on bison for food, shelter, and clothing and as a powerful spiritual symbol. But now, corralled behind this fence, the bison seem disempowered, domesticated in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

I think of what I've learned about the dearth of female road trips and why taking this trip is so important to me. As women in this culture, have we been corralled and kept penned in like these bison?

But then another thought enters: Is it possible we have corralled ourselves? In what ways have I constructed my own enclosure?

• • •

After we top off, George approaches a man in a pickup truck. “Is there a good little diner to get something to eat around here?”

He gives us directions to Lucille's.

We park the bikes, strip off layers—the day has gotten hot again—and settle into stiff chairs with plastic cushions around a wobbly Formica table. Looking at the menu, Rebecca and I realize we're not in California anymore. Both Edna and George are accustomed to road food. Rebecca and I—runners, yogis, hipster spinners—are a bit prissy in our food choices. We're mostly vegetarian, farmers' market shoppers who prefer organic, non-GMO produce, especially kale. Here our choices seem to be French fries versus potato salad as a side with a traditional hamburger. Then I notice a green salad with chicken on the menu. That might do the trick.

“Does the salad come with iceberg lettuce?” I ask the waitress, trying to sound as if I'm simply inquiring and not making a damning statement on the nature of iceberg lettuce.

“Yup.”

“Is there some way to get a different kind of lettuce?” I ask.

“Let me check with the cook. I think we have some Rogaine in back,” she answers.

Rebecca and I look at each other, suppressing the reflex to laugh.

“Uh, I mean romaine,” she checks herself.

I remind myself that just because we do things in California a certain way doesn't mean the rest of the country has to follow suit. I hate myself for it, but I still want my dark leafy greens. Turns out they're all out of romaine. I order the salad anyhow and make a note to pick up apples on our next provisions stop.

George pulls out his maps. “How 'bout we take Highway 89 instead of the interstate?” he asks. “The view and empty roads will be gorgeous.”

Rebecca raises her eyebrows at me. We both glance at Edna. Why not?

• • •

The sparsely traveled two-lane highway weaves into Utah, through Richfield (population 160) and Randolph (population 470), then returns to Wyoming. We travel north up the flat trench between mountain ranges. The day is unmercifully hot and I'm sweating inside my safety gear. We occasionally pass bikers attired in short sleeves, half helmets, and light shoes. I wish I could be that cavalier, but thinking of my family, I'm glad I opted for safety over comfort.

The miles tick off the odometer and I realize I'm riding on automatic pilot. It's a dangerous lapse. Balanced on two wheels at seventy miles an hour, it's necessary to be constantly on alert. But we've been at this so long now that it's hard to pay attention the same way I did at the beginning. In many ways, that's like life. With something new, we perk up and focus. Once we get used to it, we acclimate, we adjust to the newness, whether it's something wonderful or tragic.

Interestingly, though, I learn it's often easier to adjust to new but unwanted parts of life than to the new, positive things.

“We all have an inner thermostat setting that determines how much love, success, and creativity we allow ourselves to enjoy,” writes psychologist Gay Hendricks in
The Big Leap
. When we exceed our inner thermostat setting, we'll often do something to sabotage ourselves, causing us to drop back into the old, familiar zone where we
feel secure. Hendricks uses his own experience as an example, citing a time when he was feeling good and yet found himself manufacturing a stream of painful thoughts and images precisely because he
was
feeling good.

This phenomenon is borne out in the world around us with studies of lottery winners. One of these studies found that more than 60 percent of the winners had blown through the money within two years and returned to the same net worth as before their big win. Many ended up worse off than before they won. The idea that we are worthy of having our dreams come true, that we deserve good things, often runs counter to what we have been taught or what we think we know about ourselves. This is because our inner thermostat usually gets programmed in early childhood before we can think for ourselves. And once set, if not questioned, this mind-set will hold us back from enjoying all the love, financial abundance, and creativity we might otherwise claim.

As an example, Hendricks cites the early days of the steam-powered train, when scientists wanted the speed capped at thirty miles an hour because they believed the human body would explode at speeds greater than that. “We're approximately at that same stage of development with regard to our ability to feel good and have our lives go well,” he writes. “In the face of so much evidence that life hurts and is fraught with adversity on all fronts, having a willingness to feel good and have life go well all the time is a genuinely radical act.”

• • •

I'm floating off on these thoughts when I see George pull over to the shoulder. Edna and I follow suit. He gestures back down the highway where Rebecca has pulled over, five hundred feet behind, and is getting off her bike. We turn around and return to find Rebecca loosening her helmet.

“It just stopped running,” she says. I boomerang from pride in resetting my inner success thermometer to the thought that this trip
is the worst idea of my life. Rebecca's bike is nearly new, with fewer than five thousand miles on the clock. All along, Rebecca and I have reassured ourselves we'll be okay because we're on new bikes. What could possibly go wrong?

She pulls out her phone and calls her brother-in-law, Paul, a certified mechanic working at her shop. “We're somewhere in Wyoming,” she tells him. The day is exquisite. I see a photo op and park Izzy Bella in the middle of the deserted highway and take pictures of her, all tricked out with her luggage and accessories, looking like a real road warrior. I'm working to distract myself from the dread that is building. Paul asks George to check the connection at the battery terminals. George locates a wrench in his kit, unlatches and raises Rebecca's seat. A couple of twists of the wrench snugs the cable connections.

The bike fires right up. We're good to go.

• • •

Before starting this trip, I contacted C. Robert Cloninger, professor of psychiatry, psychology, and genetics at Washington University in St. Louis. Cloninger is known for his research on genetics, neurobiology, and development of personality. He developed a well-respected measure of personality traits that includes risk-taking variables.

Like the Big Five personality traits I considered earlier, the psychobiological model Cloninger created is yet another way to look at the same terrain. By contrast, his model includes four dimensions of temperament: novelty seeking, harm avoidance, risk dependence, and persistence. He also developed character models to measure self-directedness, cooperativeness, and self-transcendence, and these elements shape the first four dimensions. (You can test yourself at
https://tci.anthropedia.org/en/
.)

Three of these traits are crucial to create a risk-taking personality, he explains.

       
1.
   
Low harm avoidance: someone who is outgoing, risk-taking, and optimistic. If I were on the other end of this spectrum, he tells me, I would be shy, fearful, and apprehensive.

       
2.
   
Novelty seeking, which can involve being impulsive and disorderly versus being orderly and rigid. A person who ranks high in novelty seeking and low in harm avoidance would be characterized as a thrill seeker, both impulsive and risk taking.

       
3.
   
These emotional drives are then regulated by character traits—one's conscious goals and values, and one's capacity for self-regulation. Being self-directed, for example, means a person is responsible, purposeful, and resourceful. On the other hand, those who score low in this attribute would present personality disorders characterized by traits such as blaming others and aimlessness.

Once Cloninger has gone through this matrix with me, he takes what little he knows of my life from our conversation to try to assess what category I best fit. “So, if you are high in self-directedness, as most people with your academic achievements are likely to be, then you would have the ability to judiciously regulate and express your emotional drives.”

If, on the other hand, I had ranked high in novelty seeking and low in both harm avoidance and self-direction, I would present an impulsive personality disorder, he predicts. The quality of self-direction increases with age from twenty to forty-five, then levels off at the high level of maturation, he explains.

By contrast, novelty seeking and harm avoidance do not follow a consistent direction with age, and there is little difference between the genders in this respect, except women are a little more harm avoidant and a lot more reward dependent and cooperative than men.

He explains the frequent relationship between passionate temperament profiles (low harm avoidance, high novelty seeking, high risk
dependence) and creative characteristics (self-directedness, cooperativeness, and self-transcendence).

“So risk taking is related to creativity,” he boils it down for me. “You might even think creative writers tend to become bikers!”

• • •

But now, out here in the wilderness, all that knowledge doesn't feel very relevant. We've moved further into Wyoming and Edna's trip-stopping flat tire has just occurred, leaving us stranded and alone. A storm is moving toward us, we can't raise a cell phone signal, and gunfire cracks somewhere in the tree line. At this moment, being a risk taker doesn't seem like such a great personality trait.

George eventually gets a hold of an Auto Club operator. By figuring out where and when we last got gas, he's able to get a bead on our location. A tow truck is on its way, though it might take an hour or more to arrive.

“Go on, you two,” George tells me and Rebecca as the rain clouds loom even closer. “There's no point in all of us getting wet.”

Edna concurs. “Really. We've done this before. We'll have the bike towed to Jackson and meet you at the motel. We'll be there before you know it.”

Rebecca and I recall learning about the biker ethic of not leaving companions stranded the evening before with Roger and Crystal. I want to be a responsible rider who sticks with disabled comrades. But the sound of gunfire is raising the hair on the back of my neck and that storm looks far too ominous. A pickup truck, the only vehicle we've seen in the hour or so we've been stranded, passes, then circles back. Two middle-aged men greet us. They confirm the obvious: We're basically in the middle of nowhere. “A hundred miles, actually, from the middle of nowhere.” There's a Harley sticker on the back window of their truck. They offer to stay with Edna and George, to give shelter in their truck if needed. Nightfall is approaching fast and they urge Rebecca and me to keep moving toward Jackson. We take their advice.

I've been picturing the ride into Jackson Hole, one of the most anticipated scenic moments of this trip. Now, I no longer care. The rain starts to pelt as we ride the curvy road. It stings my exposed wrists, smears my face shield, drips down the back of my neck. Goose-bumps cover my skin; my teeth chatter. We could stop and put on our rain suits, but that will make us even wetter, so we power on. Stopping for gas in Jackson takes my last ration of strength. My legs are shaky and my hands tremble from low blood sugar. By the time we pull into the motel parking lot, we've clocked more than five hundred miles for the day and are absolutely numb with exhaustion. I hope Edna and George are okay.

We check into our rooms, twist off our boots, and shed our drenched riding clothes. Changed into dry jeans and shirts, we return to the front desk for recommendations on a good place for cheap eats. As we get a list of local food joints, the tow truck pulls into the lot, Edna's pink bike tethered to the bed, still as sparkling as a Rose Parade princess.

Once Edna's bike is unloaded, the four of us amble to get something to eat. Here we are, in one of the most scenic destinations in the west, and we're too damn tired to appreciate any of it. We pick the closest restaurant we can find.